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Thursday, April 22, 2021
April 22nd, 2021: The Journal Entry Series
Sunday, April 18, 2021
A Simple Mundane Life
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Words on paper. Those are as solid as one can be. A real reflection of what is in our hearts. Things we trouble ourselves to talk about. They are as committed to the author as one would be in marriage. These words come alive, and can surpass in breath even the writer who scripted them.
If blissful ignorance were a place, I would buy property there, and build a vacation home. Because, while knowledge is indeed powerful, some of it can be the anchor which holds the learner under water, leaving them to drown in their sorrows.
The "information highway" reaches speeds past that of sound, past the light reflected off the sun and onto the objects which wait for its shine. Last week, last month, last year; this week, this month, this year. We move in a circle of stuff some of us did not ask to know. Our muscles hurt. There is simply too much to carry, and we have no more room to shift their weight.
I understand now why, as we age, we move more toward wanting a simple mundane life. Its the great expectation of waking up every morning and knowing what is going to happen with no unwelcomed surprises. Life starts, and it seems we are so willing to explore all the possibilities it can bring. The world is full with oyster pearls, and we believe we can gather more than our portion's share. Then, the reality of being a "responsible adult" hits, and we begin the process of second guessing our choices, climb onto our circular-shaped stones, and begin our journey down hill.
Yes, it can very much look like a dark future to look forward to, but it doesn't have to be. There are resting places along the way. We need those in order to regroup, and build strength in order jump back on our circular stones, and keep riding the never-ending hill of waves.
It is a challenge indeed, while riding those waves, to long for a resting place that seems all too far away. I find myself stealing away moments to rest, while at the same time making moves to emulate an undeterred champion. This works for those who are watching. It makes it look as though I am rooted in strength, not because it is what I am feeling, but for those who need to see that picture to prevent them from worrying, I am glad to paint it. Yet, I wonder, just how long this strong tower image will hold up? Because, I am certainly not a strong tower on the inside. This is the place only visible in part by me, and in full view to the Creator.
The tower is crumbling, not because it only holds up under the right circumstances, like those of many others, but because the consistent pressure of the weight being stacked high upon its head, has been sitting there far too long. It is trying to do a new thing with old tools, drawing from old resources for a new reality, and wondering if the two will ever meet in perfect harmony.
There is hope still. One which never leaves, but resides well with me and those who refuse to allow living drive the life right out of us. We look to it in order to find peace enough to sleep at night. Solace is found within dreams and visions. They craft a clear picture of God's voice, which in the noise of the business from the day, can go unheard. He leans in to the level of our understanding and assures us that our hope is not in vain.
Mundane, in the dictionary, is defined as both dull and lacking excitement, as well as being "of this earthly world rather than a heavenly or spiritual one." To me, it can be a place we run to when we grow old, or a place we run from while we are still young. Either way, we understand the meaning of its purpose most deeply during the quiet stillness of our journey. It is an oxymoron, in that it can be both good and bad; confined to the fear of it in our former years, and escaping in it while we wait for these temples made of dirt to pass away.
Monday, April 12, 2021
Living Ashes
Tuesday, March 9, 2021
The Golden Obstacle
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Or who he’s said to be
He acts as though
He wants not the center
Of attention
That he so diligently seeks
Could it be the fond reminders
Of what life used to be?
That brings him back
To a place where ”he”
Is all they could ever see?
No!
No.... Not him,
He holds no claim to arrogance
Nor does he live in doubt
That everyone’s feigned attention
Is what he can live without
It does not matter
If it’s real
So long as he can be
The place where their devotion
Lies,
Pouring over in loving streams
To be the obstacle
Of his own delusions,
Not soon realizing
He doesn’t hold the axis
Of which their world does spin
Too busy looking inward
To be aware of the reality he’s standing in
All things great or small
Seem to point back to him
In his mind
What other way is there to be?
A golden obstacle
Has been his crown
Holding too tightly for release
Sunday, February 21, 2021
The Leaning Post
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Today, in church, I witnessed something few of us pay attention to. The weight of burden on my pastor’s shoulders had come to the point of almost unbearable. It was a gut-wrenching blow to my consciousness to see the man we all lean on for strength and council, plus constant encouragement, be broken in that manner.
My mind raced with thoughts of what it was I could do. Pray, was what he asked of us, and yes, I could most certainly do that.
I reflected on these past few months after losing my job, and going through my own personal struggles in life. I saw how when my son was in trouble, after his father and I did our part to help bring him out of it, the next person we thought to lean on was our pastor; my son included.
When I went to him, he smiled, and made himself available to my son, fully expecting for him to do his part and reach out to him, so he could be there. He says these things not just in word, but I have seen with my own eyes how he’s made himself available to myself and my family, counseling us whenever we need. And what have we done? That was my question. What have we done to help carry the weight of the load on this one man’s shoulders?
I racked my brain through the years that my family and I have been members of this church. Sure, we helped and paid our tithes, but were our efforts enough? Because if that were true, why is it that we still allow for him & his family to carry the bulk of the load?
On the drive home, I was hit with a vision of a leaning post. This was how I imagined my pastor must have felt on that pulpit, pouring his heart out to us. Every day people pass by a leaning post expecting it to do its job with no thanks (or even help) required. And every day, that post is just where it is expected to be, doing the job it is expected to do, never bending under the pressure, and most certainly will not break. At least that’s what others think.
Sometimes we forget, our pastors are people too. Commissioned for a great assignment, yes, but still in need of lifting up just as we do.
The Leaning Post
Set in the middle
Of a busy passage way
Was a post
Built solely for the purpose
For which those who grew weary
Could lean
Daily they passed him
By-and-by
Using him to ease their pain
And bring comfort to their many aches
Always pulling
The strength from his strength
Taking from him for themselves
All there was for them to take
The reliable leaning post
Never gave in
Not once bending
Under the stress of their weight
Even as chips of his luster
Over time
Began to fade away
Often over used
But rarely ever not needed
He weathered all storms
Looking all but worn
Save those chips from his paint
Which patterned with age
As time moved on
The people, they watched & watched
As those chips took form
Waiting for him to give way
Yet, something in him, they could not see
Prevented the leaning post
From shattering
Under the depths of all their weight
He was anchored down
Roots bearing deep
Deep into the solid ground
Streams of power chords
Running through his veins
They reached up
All the way up
To the source of Light
Shining at the head of his base
It wasn’t until
The earth came alive
And one day began to shake
The leaning post rooted
So deeply and still
Could not stand
Under its ravenous quake
When all things were cleared
And folks came back
To meet in the street
The old leaning post
They saw, what was to be
The oddest sight they’d ever seen
The leaning post
Which each depended on
Had itself began to lean
They all looked around
Wondering how
He would get back to
Giving them a place
To lean
One by one
All went on home
Until the street
Where the old leaning post
Now, himself leaned,
Became empty
Save for the lone post
Being all that there was to be seen
Returning with tools of their own
To rebuild his towering strength
Each person worked diligently
Until his paint shined
With a lustrous sheen
Together they toiled
Helping the post stand up tall
And polishing the outer layer
Until the leaning post
No longer leaned
Thank you Pastor, for being our leaning post.
Wednesday, February 3, 2021
More Than the Sum of A Few Chosen Parts
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Friday, January 29, 2021
Children of Man
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Last night, in the kitchen with my oldest son, I realized for the first time all of the emotions my mother fought so hard to get me to understand back when I was his age.
Life is truly a balance when you become a parent. You want to see your children experience all of the good, give them all of the best gifts, and protect from any harm you ever personally knew, plus more. Yet, you also want to prepare them for the fact that the harshness in reality is very true, and in your raising process, you hope to armor them enough to withstand it.
Like me, my oldest sees the conditions in which he feels we allow for our younger son to take advantage. Also like me, my eldest feels that it is his place to vocalize his objections in the way we parent. He does this with full intention of what he feels he is offering us in the manner of help, but not realizing that as the actual "experienced" parents in the household, we know what we are doing, as well as what we deal with.
In my late teens, and early twenties, I consistently filled my mother's ear with how lazy and selfish my younger sister was. Being that I was her sister, I thought it gave me every right to make judgements on how my mother should raise, and respond to her. In the heart of my thinking, I felt I had every right because, I mean hey, I was her sister, and the only one who loved her as much as my mother did....
I was so wrong.
Its funny how, when we enter adulthood, we come with the mentality of a know-it-all, and nothing anyone else says, or does, can convince us different. Life has a way of circling back though. It will push the reality of truly not knowing a thing about it, without experience, in your face with a vengeance.
In the kitchen, as I sat and listened to my son complain about his little brother, and tell me how we allow for him to take advantage of us, for a moment, I was my mother.... Hurt. Not from feeling taken advantage of, but from someone outside of me and my husband's two-parent arena, speaking poorly about our child.
When it comes down to it; no matter what they do, your children will always hold a place in your heart few can only dream to touch. There is love, indeed, to be shared with everyone, but the type of love for a child runs well past the one you have for sister or brother. It is one which will have you risking hell and high water to see them provided for, and safe. One which can only be compared in a much smaller sense, to God's love for us. It never ends, it never fails, is long-suffering, and will never give up the hope that what has been invested will yield a great return.
That is how my mother sees my little sister, and hearing me say anything derogatory about her, pained her heart, just as it did mine when I listened to my older son in the kitchen last night.
As a parent, I would love to teach my children, and have them learn about life the easy way. I would love for them to take what my husband and I have to say from experience, then go out and make better choices as a result. But, what I've learned in living, is that there is no better teacher than life itself. It is only through experience we gain the 20/20 hindsight we all long to see.
I've given up trying to make my children understand what it is to be a parent. I will even have to take a backseat on trying to make them see what it means to be an adult. Those things will come eventually. They will each have their day in the kitchen with their own sons or daughters. The light will come on inside their heads, their hearts will ache for the sake of their seed, and their eyes will open to the words repeatedly preached to them by each of their parents.
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Wow! Thank you Mama.... You put up with stubborn old me.
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